


The Second Time We First Met

by stackcats



Category: The Thick of It (TV)
Genre: M/M, Pre-Slash, Tumblr fics, flashfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-17
Updated: 2014-07-17
Packaged: 2018-02-09 05:48:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,202
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1971264
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stackcats/pseuds/stackcats
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jamie's recently started working for Malcolm in London, but it's not going entirely well so far...</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Second Time We First Met

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a prompt from bollockingface on tumblr: Malcolm/Jamie + hotel

Jamie's been on the job for three months, and in those three months there's been half-a-dozen spectacular cock-ups which were not exactly his fault, but which he's being held responsible for as the new head of the press office, and fair enough, that's part of the job. He can't say he isn't a tiny bit anxious - he and Malcolm used to know each other well, but it's been years since they worked together at the Herald. Since Jamie arrived in London he's barely seen the man besides his first day in the office, a couple of dinners where they were seated too far apart to talk, and the odd good morning as Malcolm charges through the building on his way to somewhere-or-other.

Apparently he trusted Jamie to hold the fort on his own. The fact that the entire press office team are being forced, by Malcolm himself, to spend the weekend at a communications and media skills training event is enough evidence for Jamie to deduce that he hasn't had an entirely successful first few months. He's frustrated and agitated, annoyed with himself and with Malcolm for making them waste their weekend, but he diligently studies the schedule of events, assigns his staff to attend lectures and workshops he thinks will benefit each person the most, and figures out the least boring events to attend himself. 

Malcolm's at the hotel too. So far, Jamie's spotted him browsing the cocktail menu at the bar, lounging beside the pool with a book, and negotiating with the receptionist for an upgrade to a room with a spa bath. It might be years since Jamie really knew Malcolm, but he does know that Malcolm never takes time off, never rests, never has a holiday. Which means that he's here to make sure Jamie does his damn job properly. 

That's infuriating and embarrassing, and as soon as the last session of the day is over, Jamie finds out Malcolm's room number from reception, stomps up three flights of stairs purely because it's more difficult to stand angrily in a lift, and gives the door a few violent thumps.

"You took your time." Malcolm holds the door open for him, and Jamie stomps in, swatting Malcolm's hand away so he can slam the door himself. His mother used to ask if slamming doors made him feel better, and yes, actually, yes it does a bit.

"Where d'you think I've been? I've been listening to an assortment of carbon-copy twats droning on and on as if they know fuck all - I could teach every one of these bastards a thing or two, this is an utter wankfest, Malc, where the fuck did you even hear about this fucking Girl Guides fucking mother-and-daughter fucking weekend camp?"

Malcolm appears at first to be ignoring everything Jamie says. He hands Jamie a tiny tin of beer from the mini-fridge, and opens a sparkling water for himself, settling down on the ugly commercial-quality sofa. Jamie's about to set off on a rant when Malcolm nods as if he's just heard the most reasonable argument in the world.

"I know you could," he says. "If you weren't sharper than every twat in this building you wouldn't be working for me. It's a brave new world, son, and I'm fucking going up in it. I don't need you.”

Jamie scoffs, throws his arms out either side. “Yet here I fucking am.”

“Here you are.” 

Malcolm’s giving him that old look, suddenly familiar again to Jamie, a look that can read the thoughts off the inside of Jamie’s skull. He’s changed a bit, Malcolm has, but only to become even more himself, even thinner, even harder, even more graceful. His hair’s cut too short for Jamie’s liking, it’s too severe, nothing like the scruffy mess of curls Jamie used to admire back in their hack days. He’s dressing better too, in fully tailored suits at work, and today he’s wearing light colours, designer casualwear beneath a soft grey cardigan, though Jamie isn’t sure if that’s his usual weekend look or something put together to blend in with the other hotel guests. The Malcolm he used to know was more of a second-hand denim sort of bloke, but you could always tell he was working his way up to something more. 

Changes aside, Jamie can’t take his eyes off him. Never could. He’s been restless for so many years, since Malcolm left for London…

“Fuck this,” Jamie snaps, and swallows the contents of the little beer can in a couple of mouthfuls. “If we’re all so fucking expendable, what’re we doing here? This is fucking humiliating, this whole weekend - is that what this is about? You want to humiliate my team, Malc, waste their time, fuck them around? Because if that’s it, then fuck you, you jumped up swizzle stick cunt. You don’t get to - do you realise how fucking hard these people work-”

“It’s not about them, it’s about you - it’s about making sure you give a fuck.”

Jamie bristles, unable to keep still, almost bouncing on his toes. “You’re fucking testing me,” he snarls.

“Yeah. I get to do that. What I’m trying to do, this job, is so far beyond important these people can’t even fucking comprehend. You used to get it, back in the old days, and I need to be absolutely fucking positive that you-”

Jamie cuts him off with a harsh bark of something like laughter. “Oh fuck OFF,” he shouts, striding a little lap around the room until he’s back in front of Malcolm. He suddenly feels ridiculous in his suit jacket and his shiny shoes, so he kicks the shoes off, throws his jacket on the floor, and stands there defiant in slightly mismatched socks.

“No games,” he says. “Just - no fucking games, okay? I can’t - listen, the reason I’m here is you. If anyone else offered me this job I’d tell ‘em exactly where and how fucking deep they can stick it, but you, you always made more sense than any other fucker, right? I just moved four hundred miles from home because you fucking asked me, so don’t tell me you have the fucking right to fucking test me! You want to know if I give a shit? Just fucking ask me! Just fucking _look_ at me!”

Malcolm’s jaw moves silently for a moment. He studies Jamie’s face, gaze dropping, looking him over, making Jamie buzz with fresh energy. It’s all so familiar, the way Malcolm narrows his eyes very slightly, sits forward, looking at Jamie for just slightly too long.

“If you don’t believe me,” Jamie says, “I’ll catch the next flight home.”

Malcolm gets up, picks Jamie’s jacket off the floor, and drapes it over his shoulder. They’re close, so close that Jamie can smell the hotel-issue shower gel, can see a tiny razor-nick on Malcolm’s jaw. Last time they stood so close was years ago, slightly drunk and sheltering from the rain in a narrow tenement doorway, Jamie’s fingers finding Malcolm’s hip in the dark, toying with the cheap material of his shirt, and Malcolm, looking down, lips parted…

“Put your shoes back on,” Malcolm says, moving away towards the door. “Let’s get dinner.”


End file.
